


hold my hand and kiss my lips

by livtontea



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Drunken Kissing, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Teens being teens, Underage Drinking, Watford Eighth Year, and like... drunken-ness, no beta we die like my sleep schedule, probably? it's just a party they're at a party, watford era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23625892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livtontea/pseuds/livtontea
Summary: He opens his eyes, and his head is so far back he must be seeing me upside down. I don't have time to look away—I'm obviously staring, and even he's not thick enough to think otherwise.And then the bastard fuckingsmiles.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 9
Kudos: 70





	hold my hand and kiss my lips

**Author's Note:**

> this was inspired by conan gray's [wish you were sober](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hEDBZtmKPmg) :)
> 
> umm idk how accurate this is? but hopefully it's still enjoyable! (edit as of 1/1/2021: holy shit i just reread this and i forgot to say i am not in any way british and i have no idea what proper british teen slang is so i probably fucked it up REALLY badly im sorry wkjfdk)

**BAZ**

I don't know why I bothered showing up. Dev and Niall insisted it would be fun, and I was almost going to agree—rolling my eyes and making it clear that I'm doing them a favor. And then Dev had to smirk and say: "Snow's going to be there."

I'd immediately (and out of spite) decided that actually, fuck off, I'm not going, not with Simon bloody Snow there, surrounded by teenagers, and worse— _drunk_ teenagers. (Naturally, there would be alcohol, we're all a bunch of stupid teens, of course there would be alcohol at a party.) So it's a complete surprise to me that I am here, now, at this party, watching Simon Snow laugh along with Bunce about who-knows-what.

It's a pretty shitty party. As soon as I walked in somebody (probably Trixie) shoved a plastic cup in my hand. Everything reeks of cheap alcohol, and there's music going. A couple of people are completely embarrassing themselves dancing.

And I'm leaning against the wall, drink in hand, watching Simon Snow.

He's drunk. I'm tipsy. His head falls back and more laughter spills out of his mouth, and I can see his shoulders shaking slightly. Bunce is also very clearly not sober, her glasses askew and half of her hair fallen out of its usual ponytail. She's leaning against Snow, laughing right along with him. I take a sip of my drink. It tastes like shit.

I thought I was at a safe distance from all of Snow's radiance, here in a dark corner of a shitty teen party, but I was wrong. He opens his eyes, and his head is so far back he must be seeing me upside down. I don't have time to look away—I'm obviously staring, and even he's not thick enough to think otherwise.

And then the bastard fucking _smiles._

He straightens, and he's dreadfully not facing me any longer, with his blue eyes and bronze curls and slightly-parted fucking lips. Bunce looks over to me and then back to him, and then says something as she tugs on his sleeve. He laughs, she laughs, and he downs the rest of his drink in one fluid motion. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

I'm frozen as he makes his way over to me. My eyes dart from him to the very convenient window that's just three, maybe four paces away. I could crawl through it and run from here, run back to Mummer's and back to the room and then be asleep by the time he gets back.

His jeans—he's wearing jeans—are ripped at the knees. Like he's some… boy. Some fucking normal guy, a random body I'd meet at a club—just some boy like any other, one that doesn't carry the weight of half the world on his shoulders. A boy that I'm not in love with. If I lower my eyelids until my vision blurs at the edges, I can almost believe it. That the boy making his way to where I'm standing isn't Simon Snow, it's just Simon. Just a boy.

He _thuds_ softly against the wall next to me, and my eyes open, and the illusion is shattered.

Because Simon Snow is next to me, so close I could reach up and brush the curls away from his forehead. Simon Snow with his freckles and moles and his cross around his neck. Simon Snow who is impossibly beautiful like this, with the lights highlighting him in different colours.

Because Simon Snow is smiling at me, and I'm hopelessly in love with him.

"Hey," he breathes, and his lips are shiny and wet.

"Hey," I breathe right back to him. He laughs.

"Are you having fun?"

I don't have it in me to sneer. Maybe it's the alcohol. Or maybe it's the intoxication of Snow being so bloody _close_ and leaning in, his head tilted to the side a bit like he's an over-excitable puppy. So I laugh instead. Sarcastic and short. "Sure. I'm standing here alone, having so much fun. You should try it."

"Do you want to be alone?"

"What?"

He licks his lips. My eyes flick down to watch the tip of his tongue trace the curve of his mouth. Am I blushing? I think I might be. Crowley, I hope I'm not blushing, or at the very least, that I'm flushed enough from the beer that it's not noticeable. "I mean," he says, voice void of any antagonism, "If you… if you don't want to be alone, then... I _could_ try it. Standing here and having fun." He grins. "With you."

Merlin, he's _pissed,_ isn't he? Snow would never say something that sounds… well, it sounds like he's flirting. He'd never flirt with me, not sober. I doubt he would when he's tipsy, too, so he must be absolutely plastered. Aleister Crowley.

I mechanically raise my cup to take a swig of the tasteless beer. He doesn't leave—he watches me swallow, and… I must be drunker than I thought, because for a moment, I swear it looks like his eyes linger on my lips.

"Why are you here?" I say. "Can't you go bother someone else? I bet Wellbelove is dying for your company."

"She's not here," he jovially informs me. "We broke up. And it would be awkward if she showed up, I think, she thinks."

I raise an eyebrow. "You break up every other month. You'll be together by this time next week." Though it is strange Wellbelove didn't show up—this would be a perfect time for a couple's reunion, or whatever.

"No, really," he insists. "We broke up. Like, permanently. For real."

"You don't know what you're saying. You're drunk."

"So are you."

I roll my eyes and take another drink.

This time, his eyes _definitely_ catch on my lips. His own are slightly parted. Mouth breather. I unwillingly swallow, and suddenly I'm aware of _just how close_ he is. Our knees are almost knocking together. I could stretch my fingers and they'd connect with his thigh. He's looking up at me. (He's three inches shorter than me. I've been known to hold that over him.) (No pun intended.)

"Snow…" I say.

And then he rocks up on his toes and kisses me. I almost drop my drink. And then I _do_ drop my drink, because winding my arms around his shoulders and kissing him back feels so much more important than keeping beer off the floor.

In all of my time imagining kissing Snow, I never thought he'd kiss like this. I thought, maybe he'd kiss like he fights—rough and fast, hot and heavy. But he's kissing me slowly and—we're both drunk, I should push him away, why am I not pushing him _away_ —sweetly. His arms are pressed against my chest and my heart feels warm under the heat of his palm. (I must be as drunk as him, If I'm thinking things like that.)

We're tucked into the corner of the party, slightly distanced from the clamour and pounding beat and loud music. Snow's hands are on me, one is sliding up into my hair and burying itself into it. (I didn't slick it back, and it's loose around my face.) I'm kissing Simon Snow at a party.

Aleister Crowley, I'm living a charmed life.

Snow pulls away, and I blink. Then he's on me again, backing me into the wall. He kisses me, and he tastes like cheap beer and smoke. I can feel magic thrumming under his skin. Simon Snow is so alive, and he's kissing me, and we're both drunk.

He slips his tongue into my mouth, just as carefully as everything else about this. He's so hot. I'm so warm where he's touching me. He's doing this incredible thing with his chin, and I have to hold back a noise that would have been so very embarrassing.

I pull away. "Simon…"

He grins at me. "Do you want to go somewhere else?"

I swallow. He's so close. His hand is still in my hair, threading it between his fingers. "All right," I say. "Let's go."

We stumble out of the building and start making our way to Mummer's house. He's leaning on me, a grin stretched across his face. I trip and almost fall face first. He's like the sun. It's dark, but I can see him perfectly clear, and he's like the sun. Does that make me sunkissed?

Snow laughs as he catches me by the elbows and hauls me back up. "I thought you'd have better balance."

"I'm drunk," I say. "When I'm sober my balance is impeccable."

He laughs again and trails off into a happy sort of sigh. "I know."

His grip on my hand is tight all the way to our room. I fumble with the door a bit when we arrive. When I get it open, I realize—I don't know what comes next.

Snow seems to have no such hesitations. He leans up and kisses me. Again. His lips still taste like beer and smoke, but now that it's just him—no people, no music, just Simon Snow and his mouth on mine—I taste cinnamon. His hands are on my hips, pulling me closer, and mine are wrapped around his shoulders, holding on tight.

I gasp into his mouth when I feel his thumbs rub circles into my skin right above my hip bones. He absorbs it with a grin and doesn't stop. His fingers inch under my shirt and then there's a warm hand against my stomach.

Snow has rough hands. They're covered in calluses and little scars. They're big, too, and they're so warm and nice against my skin. I have to suppress a shudder. I don't think I do it very well, because his grin widens—he's been smiling non-stop, how is that still possible?—and he rubs more circles into my stomach. And still on my hip, with his other hand.

 _Merlin,_ that feels so good.

He whines when I pull away from his mouth—I want to hear him make noises like that again, and again, and again, I want to be the reason for them, I want _him_ —and sighs happily when I press a kiss to one of the moles on his right cheek, and then the other. I kiss the mole over his left eye. (His eyelids flutter shut when I do.) I kiss the moles under his left ear, and the ones on his neck, and the ones scattered just under his collar.

I hiss at the closeness of his cross. It was fine before, when I didn't go any lower than his chin, but with my mouth so close to the thing the buzzing in my jaw is borderline painful. He notices, of course. He takes his hand off my hip (I silently bemoan the lack of it, and celebrate the fact that the hand on my stomach is still very much present) and tilts my chin up. I'm met with his concerned frown and his bottom lip pinched between his teeth.

"Does it hurt?" He's almost whispering.

"Not really," I say. And then because of his obvious disbelief, I add: "Not much."

"You can't touch the cross, right?" When have we gotten to the point of casually acknowledging my… well, _me_? Is it just because he's drunk? Is it because _I'm_ drunk?

"Yeah."

"But you can touch the chain?"

I don't have any words. I nod.

I make an embarrassing noise at the sudden lack of heat on my stomach, which makes him laugh, which makes the embarrassment worth it. (I suppose.) He guides my hands to the back of his neck where the chain's clasp is.

Snow has his hand wrapped around the cross itself. Like he's protecting me from it. I don't make a habit of walking around touching crosses, but I suppose If I do, it won't be pleasant. And he's stopping that from happening, even unintentionally.

I unclasp the chain. He pulls it away from him, away from me, and tosses it on his desk from where he's standing. He looks at me, filled with burning earnestness, inviting me.

I'm back on him in seconds. I have my chance right now—and I bloody well will make the most of it. I keep kissing his moles, doubling back to the ones on his face, and work my way down again. We vaguely half-stumble to one of our beds (his) and vaguely half-collapse onto it. He's giggling and I'm smiling into his skin. As I kiss lower, my mouth drifts open, and I'm pressing hot kisses to his clavicle.

I sigh into the juncture of his neck and shoulder when his hands go back to my stomach. My own fingers slip under the back of his shirt. His back is toned and solid, flat and warm and so nice to have at my fingertips. I run my hands up his back and to his shoulder blades and kiss the mole beneath his ear.

"Baz," he says, tugging lightly but insistently at the hem of my shirt. "Baz, are we—?"

I realize what I'm doing and pull away. I've fed, earlier today, and I know I'm flushed. Crowley.

"No, I don't—Sorry, if you don't want to, we don't—"

"It's okay," he says. "We don't have to. I don't—I don't think I want to, I'm not—I'm not ready? We can just…" He gestures at the space between us. Or rather, the lack of space between us. "If you want."

"Yeah," I say. "I do."

Snow grins at me. Then his smile twists into a smirk and he pushes at my shoulders.

I fall onto my back with an _oomph_. He's on his hands and knees over me, smirk still stretched across his beautiful fucking face. I feel like I'm on fire in the best fucking way.

"Go on, Baz," he says. He's challenging me, daring me to stretch my neck and push my mouth onto his.

And I do.

I'd do it again a hundred times over. I'd do anything for him.

Because Simon Snow is alive, and this is all I've ever wanted and more than I had ever hoped for.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading :)! im on tumblr @bahumdrum and if u wanna leave a comment that'd be cool too. no pressure
> 
> edit as of 10/31/2020: marked this as complete bc i have no motivation to finish it :') and i think it works fine as a one-shot so it's ok


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